Phone

by Will Self

  state, too. COLONEL THOMAS: I’ll deal with that, Landon – I want

  you back at comms. Base is on full lock-down now … (he hefts the

  BAG o’ PHONES) … if any of the men still has a mobile phone,

  I want it impounded, and no one’s to enter or leave the base before

  rouse. Swing by Captain Petersen’s quarters on your way – give her

  a knock and tell her she needs to go see Major Townshend sharpish,

  he’s had a bit of an … accident. (He salutes SERGEANT LANDON

  smartly, and moves away, leaving the squadron lines. He passes by

  the vehicle park: rows of aypeesees and up-armoured Land Rovers

  still releasing the fierce heat of the day into the hardly less hot

  night.) THE STEELY STEEDS: Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! COLONEL

  THOMAS (seeing the whirring gimbals of the carriage clock on

  the mantelpiece in the dining room of the Bardney beeandbee):

  Jonathan’d probably hate it, though – sabotage things … insult our

  guests while I was working hard at trying to get us accepted in the

  community … (Nearing the squat outline of the TeeDeeEff, he

  sees several troopers loitering about, smoking.) COLONEL THOMAS:

  What’s going on here, men? What’re you doing up and about

  again? I’ve already had to disperse you once … TROOPER PHILPOTT:

  We heard Bessie ain’t gonna make it, sir. TROOPER WESLEY

  (stepping forward from the shadows – a lowering and truculent

  figure): Slotted by those rag ‘ead cunts! TROOPERS HIRST and

  SUTCLIFFE (appearing beside him): Yeah, those rag ‘ead cunts,

  sir – they gotta be corrected … innit – straightened out, an’ that.

  COLONEL THOMAS: I realise you’re upset, men … TROOPER WEST

  (a big, open-faced lad who’s now the Rams’ finest goal-kicker):

  Upset, sir … fucking upset! COLONEL THOMAS: Yes, upset after

  today’s incident – but there’s absolutely no justification for this

  behaviour. Rouse is at oh-five-hundred as per – I suggest you get

  your sweds down NOW, and that suggestion is a BLOODY

  ORDER! (He stands watching the men as they sullenly bestir

  themselves and head back towards the squadron lines. From the

  cunts, fucks and rag ‘eads that float back towards him, COLONEL

  THOMAS realises all the hard work he’s put in over the past three

  years has been instantly and catastrophically annulled. The

  BLOODY ORDER! screeched so shrilly and camply, has cost

  him what little respect he ever had. A wave of disaffection radiates

  out from the group of troopers in the form of a dark shadow rushing

  before them towards the squadron lines. When it arrives, it lifts the

  slack canvas of their highly vulnerable accommodation, so meeting

  and merging with the still fouler revelations plopping from MAJOR

  TOWNSHEND’S mouth. As COLONEL THOMAS looks on, transfixed,

  he sees his three children sprint from between THE OFFICERS’

  TRAILERS – this great tsunami of contempt and revulsion rearing

  up behind them. Their mother stands beside the point-fifty-cal’ on

  top of the main gate sangar, a camcorder in hand, getting liveaction

  footage of the moment an exemplary twenty-two-year-long

  military career was swept away.) FIONA THOMAS (shouting through

  a ram-cum-bullhorn): Okay, okay! Great stuff, people – but I’d like

  to do the whole wave-of-disaffection scene again. Positions, please,

  everyone! DEREK THOMAS (appearing beside her dressed in full

  Utherian clobber: sheepskin cloak, conical wizard’s hat and leather

  buckler, holding a shepherd’s crook, with his long beard hanging

  down to his velveteen codpiece): No need for a second take, Fi …

  (he gently pushes down the ram-cum-bullhorn) … I think we all

  got the point: my son’s a homosexual. Frankly, if any of you lot’re

  at all surprised, it can only be because you’re kneeling, hooded

  and handcuffed in a dark cell, while a man torments you with a

  boom box. THE BOOM BOX (rising up through the roof of the TeeDeeEff,

  all lit up by disco strobes): Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, oh no …

  DEREK THOMAS: Not my problem – I knew he was that way

  inclined when he was a little boy. That’s why I asked Rodney to be

  his godfather … to look out for him … Thought Rod – being an

  iron himself – might be a positive influence on Gawain, get him to

  realise what a fool’s-bloody-errand peacetime soldiering really is.

  THE RAINBOW WHEEL (which throughout has been scooting about

  the compound, snitch-style – shooting through tents and trailers,

  bouncing off walls and the sides of vehicles, spinning the while –

  and now rises up to hover above the main gate): Maaaaaaybeeeeeee

  neeeeeext yeeeaaarrr! COLONEL THOMAS (muttering as he paces in

  a tight figure-eight, again and again): There isn’t going to be any

  next year – not now. Besides, Dad, this isn’t bloody peacetime

  soldiering, is it – and it isn’t my fault the Rams’ve ended up policing

  Ali al-Garbi rather than racing to cut off thousands of Soviet

  TeeSeventyTwos at the Fulda Gap. DEREK THOMAS (mockingly):

  The Fulda Gap, eh – talk about fighting the last existential conflict

  rather than the current ethically dubious one. THE RAINBOW

  WHEEL: Stop lagging, Gawain, and come with me – come with

  meeeee to Bardneeeeey! I can download this image at high speed:

  You getting the old Volvo out of the garage … Murder to start on

  cold mornings, isn’t it – needs plenty of choke. Got your shopping

  bag, have you? Bag-for-life, isn’t it – eco-friendly and all that. You’ve

  already told Jonathan you’re off to Market Rasen to do the shop,

  and there he is, freshly showered and shaved, wearing clean jeans

  and a pressed white shirt, all lithe and graceful in the oaken parlour.

  JONATHAN DE’ATH: (who appears beside THE RAINBOW WHEEL,

  floating in a bubble of Bardney beeandbee, its translucent surface

  eerily lit from within by the wan light of a winter’s morning in rural

  Lincolnshire): I’ll just fill these individual dishes with what’s left in

  the catering tins. COLONEL THOMAS (calling all the way from

  southern Iraq): Make sure the jam and marmalade at the bottom

  isn’t manky! JONATHAN DE’ATH: Wilco, Boss. (He slips an apron

  over his adorable head and ties the tapes behind his back.) THE

  RAINBOW WHEEL (scooting over from the main gate to hang beside

  the bubble of Bardney): Got him where you want him now, haven’t

  you? COLONEL THOMAS: Dunno what you’re talking about … THE

  RAINBOW WHEEL: C’mon – enter our competition for a twenty-pound turkey, simply leave your business card in the goldfish bowl

  on the bar … Really, Gawain, is your imagination this simplistic?

  Your fantasy of being out and proud is merely to replace one gay

  couple with another – it’s not being on top cover at all, it’s clambering

  right underneath it. JONATHAN DE’ATH (who stands, blobs of

  jam dripping from spoon to dish): Don’t forget the meat order from

  Lancaster’s. COLONEL THOMAS: I phoned it through yesterday,

  love, they’ll have it all ready for me. JONATHAN DE’ATH: Make sure

  they’ve put in the sausages and bacon –. COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t


  worry. JONATHAN DE’ATH: And the chicken and duck breasts –

  remember, we’ve eight for dinner tonight. COLONEL THOMAS:

  Please … Jonathan, I’ve got it all in hand. JONATHAN DE’ATH

  (calling louder as the bubble rises): Steaks, too – fillet and rump!

  Then those ham-hock pies Lancaster’s do so well – mm-mm, love

  that jelly! And there should be both white and black pudding –

  some veal, too … COLONEL THOMAS: I promise! THE BUTCHER

  (shouting now, as the bubble rises still higher): Most important: the

  beef – we’ve got to have the beef, Gawain, if you don’t bring home

  the beef we’ve both had it … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (which orbits

  the bubble of Bardney with increasing speed as they both lift off

  into the Iraqi night): Your love got me lookin’ so cra-azy right

  now … COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t go, Jonathan! Don’t go rainbow

  wheel! THE BUTCHER: You had your chance – should’ve finessed

  me years ago … COLONEL THOMAS: Finessed you? THE BUTCHER:

  Y’know, the pack of cards … COLONEL THOMAS: What do you

  mean, Jonathan? THE BUTCHER (setting down the catering tin and

  grabbing a low beam to steady himself as the bubble rises yet

  higher): The packs of cards the Yanks had made – ones depicting

  Saddam’s top fifty-two bad guys, with him as the ace-of-spades …

  COLONEL THOMAS (shouting now): What about them, Jonathan?

  THE BUTCHER: If you’d come out you could’ve forced me out as

  well – that’s what the Yanks’ve been doing: scooping up the low-value

  cards, bracing ’em hard … then the faces start popping outta

  the woodwork – pushed or shoved. COLONEL THOMAS: I couldn’t’ve

  done that, Jonathan – what about your career? What about the

  OhEssAy? THE BUTCHER: Fuck my bloody career, Gawain – fuck

  it. It’s all bullshit – same as your career. A fool’s errand – isn’t that

  what your faggy old Uncle Rodney calls it? You and your precious

  Rams, rooting about in that shit-hole – me and my exiguous

  colleagues, floating around the world, haunting remote storage

  facilities while the Company boys get out their car batteries and

  uncoil their hoses. It’s all the same bullshit: an entire-bloody-civilisation

  embarked on a colossal – no, a cosmic – fool’s errand!

  COLONEL THOMAS (running around in circles, clutching his bag

  of CONFISCATED MOBILE PHONES to his armoured breast): Please,

  Jonathan, dooooon’t goooooo! (But it’s too late: the RAINBOW

  WHEEL and the dancing bubble, circling one another, rise higher

  and higher, dip down over the main gate sangars in salute, then

  disappear into the darkness.) THE LOUDSPEAKER: Maaaaybeeee

  neeeext yeeeaaarrr! (COLONEL THOMAS stops short, shaking his

  woolly head – then moves off purposefully towards the concrete

  blockhouse allocated to the Provost. Piled up beside it, glowing

  weirdly in the searchlights, is a huge stack of plastic chairs – the

  white garden variety, with arms that are injection-moulded into a

  parody of Sheraton. He fishes a bunch of keys from his trouser

  pocket, unlocks the door, gets out a torch and uses its beam to locate

  a safe, which he unlocks with a second key. He deposits the BAG o’

  PHONES, locks safe and door. Striding back across the compound,

  he pauses beside a signpost the Kiwis have erected with pointers

  indicating the many thousands of clicks to Auckland, Christchurch

  and other of the Southern Hemisphere’s suburbs. Looking up, he

  sees one inscribed BARDNEY, THREE THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED

  AND THIRTY-FOUR. He walks on, shaking his woolly head

  some more, and, reaching the TeeDeeEff, stands, head cocked,

  listening.) CAPTAIN CAMBELL (muffled but still audible): Come

  on … C’mon – for fuck’s sake, you’ve been pissing in your pants all

  fucking night. Pissing in your pants and moaning you gotta go to

  the toilet. Right! Fine! Now you’re in the fucking toilet and you

  can’t fucking piss! IRAQI DETAINEE (more muffled and scarcely

  audible): Pliss, I no unnerstan’ … pliss … CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  You’ll unnerstan’ well enough when we cut your fucking cock off

  and make you suck the piss out of it! IRAQI DETAINEE: I no

  unnerstan’ –. CAPTAIN CAMBELL (shouting): Marty! For fuck’s

  sake! Will you get your sorry arse in here and translate! MAJOR

  MCADIE (also muffled): What did you say, Dave? CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  I said I was gonna cut off his fucking cock and make him

  suck the piss outta it. MAJOR MCADIE: That’s, um, pretty difficult

  to get across in Arabic, Dave – their expressions for these things are

  fairly … well … metaphoric. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: I don’t care

  how fucking metaphoric you are, Marty, as long as you make it clear

  to this piece of low conniving rag-head shit what I’m literally gonna

  do to him. Got it? MAJOR MCADIE (in Arabic): My comrade wishes

  it to be known that he will remove your noble, thrice-blessed manhood

  while you sit in our tents and drink coffee. IRAQI DETAINEE

  (in Arabic): These Crusaders are simply deranged … (in English)

  I no unnerstan’ … pliss, I no unnerstan’ –. (Sound of metal door

  being torn angrily open.) CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Get the fuck outta

  here, you piece of shit! Oh, fuck, you stink … (COLONEL THOMAS

  knocks heavily on the outer door, which is at once opened a crack by

  MAJOR MCADIE.) COLONEL THOMAS: Open up, Marty. MAJOR

  MCADIE (swinging the door wide): Certainly, Boss, just observing

  the formalities. (He slams it shut once the SeeOh has entered.)

  Where’ve you been, Boss? COLONEL THOMAS (entering the interrogation

  room): Where haven’t I bloody been, Marty – the men are

  all acting up, and I’m afraid Tizer’s had some sorta … turn. (He

  sits down heavily on a white plastic garden chair that’s to hand.)

  Something must’ve … (he massages his eyes with thumb and

  forefinger – it’s fast becoming the signature gesture of the Yorkshire

  Hussars’ Commanding Officer, his equivalent of Patton’s hands-on-hips

  or Schwarzkopf’s decisive karate chop) … pushed him to the

  limit. (As the dark chamber comes into focus, he notices the IRAQI

  DETAINEE.) Jesus, Marty, who’s this when he’s at home? MAJOR

  MCADIE (checking the label affixed to the detainee’s plasti-cuffs):

  This one’s Amir, Boss – cute little Amir … Ain’tcha a cute one,

  Amir … Ain’tcha a cutie … (He chucks the wild-eyed DETAINEE

  under his chin, and, as the man rears back, his face catches the

  light and COLONEL THOMAS sees bruises and a cut below one

  eye.) COLONEL THOMAS: He doesn’t look too cute to me, Dave –

  he looks like someone’s been knocking him about. CAPTAIN

  CAMBELL: Straightforward conditioning, Boss – nothing hairy, but

  we’ve had this one solo a couple of times now – we think he may be

  the one. COLONEL THOMAS: The one? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: The

  one Colonel Trimmingham mentioned, Boss – the one the slime in

  London said might be coming over the border. COLONEL THOMAS

  (angry, but feebly, homosexually, so): For Christ’s sake, Dave!

  Boss-boss-boss – bosh-bosh-bloody-bosh! If he’s
their asset, they’ll

  want him at Shaibah in one bloody piece – how’s it gonna look if

  we pitch up with damaged goods? MAJOR MCADIE (pulling the

  pillowcase back over the DETAINEE’S tousled head): Unexpected

  item in the bagging area … Unexpected item in the bagging

  area … Please remove … (He yanks the DETAINEE upright, steers

  him by his thumbs back into the cell where the others are and

  forces him to kneel. COLONEL THOMAS and CAPTAIN CAMBELL

  follow on behind. SERGEANT HAYNES, a skinny, nervy young man,

  whose hair has bleached highlights, is standing over the IRAQI

  DETAINEES with THE IRON BAR in his hand.) COLONEL THOMAS:

  Ha-bloody-ha – didn’t you hear what I said? CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  Thing is, Boss, we gotta keep the pressure up if we want any decent

  product – we reckon this is the fucker who slotted Asif as well, so

  we gotta … sorta … dilemma, Boss … COLONEL THOMAS: I’m

  not seeing your dilemma, Dave – I repeat: we have no jurisdiction

  over Iraqi citizens who’ve committed criminal offences, you know

  that. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: But, Boss, if this man represents a threat

  to Coalition forces we’re entirely within our rights –. MAJOR

  MCADIE: If it is him. COLONEL THOMAS: Well, now you’ve

  rebagged the item, Marty, I dunno what to … expect! (All three

  British officers crack up and, crouched over, palms on thighs, wait

  out the incoming hilarity.) So … so … s’pose you better … keep

  the pressure … up. But one thing, Dave. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  Boss? COLONEL THOMAS: We are still allowed to keep detainees

  hooded and cuffed, are we? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Boss? COLONEL

  THOMAS: Thing is, wasn’t it this sort of carry-on landed us in hot

  water during the Troubles? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Troubles, sir?

  COLONEL THOMAS (looking at his intelligence officer with frank

  disbelief): Oh, forget it, Dave – you carry on. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  You carry on, Haynes. (HAYNES bangs THE IRON BAR on the

  concrete floor.) THE IRON BAR: Zoingggg! Zoingggg! COLONEL

  THOMAS: But I don’t want any of that Majar or Abu-bloody-Ghraib

  badness – we’re Fighting Rams, Dave, not banjo-picking hillbillies.

  We have our … honour. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Absolutely, Boss.

  COLONEL THOMAS: As soon as Gail’s seen to Tizer, she’ll be over

  here to give these men an exam – should’ve been done hours ago.